the perfect victim
by paracetamol-solution
Summary: To Knives, the only God he'd ever known, he prayed ... Heavy on the KxL, touches of KxV, insanity and violence. Not for fluff-fans. Read and review if you please!
1. chapter 1

I never _do_ post or finish anything under this penname.  I'm sorry.  My KxL muse is possibly the most fickle one of all, and though it gives me oodles of angsty goodness when it's on my side, it rarely is.  So.  Here's the longest yet of my pieces for this name- it's actually got a projected plot and a few chapters after this'n are already partially written.  Be warned:  This story is as graphic as I get.  Which isn't very, to be fair, and ought not to be enough to get me in trouble, but if you're a fluff-lover like I normally am, this might not be the 'fic for you.  ^^  I promise one of these days I'll finish 'the hand that gives'.  For the moment, though, let this tide you over.  I'd say love and peace, but considering the subject matter, it might not be the best bet.  Ciao!

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The backhand to his face snapped the skull back in an instant, the blow's force (thrown by a hand both inhuman and inhumane) sufficient to throw him against the wall.  He spat blood.  The crack of his head against sheer metal wasn't nearly as audible as one might expect- it was inside, through hollow corridors of a diseased mind, that it truly reverberated.  The blow (the blow, the wall, the touch, the ache he always knew- all of it indistinguishable-) filled the space behind dazed golden eyes with an overload of sensation.  Pain brought pleasure and pleasure pain, locked together inextricably, an elegant surcease from the numbness he knew otherwise.  Now, the sweet ache of it- his touch above all else, the poisonous, greedy caress meant for another man's flesh- was too much.  His skin, burning in the stale air, was shining with sweat, marked with a hundred paper-fine cuts and half-healed marks of strong teeth, souvenirs of a thousand debasements of his Lord.  A thousand times Knives had sheathed himself in this weary, willing, unworthy flesh, and all of it the same- never was it Legato's breath he wanted to come ragged and quick, never did his mind join his lips as they tangled in the blue-haired man's, greedy for more, eager to draw blood.  And in the end, it was never _Legato's_ name, so longingly cried it pained the slave to hear it.  In the end, it was always a curse and a casual, vicious blow to the body and whatever pretense of pride remained.  

For a very, very long time, it had been enough.

Dazed and lost, Legato peeled himself from the floor, his heart racing with desire and terror.  The two were entwined, for him, as deeply a part of each other as he and his Lord at the height of brutality.  One did not exist without the other.  Knives never touched him gently, and Legato had learned not to want him to.  For a long time, it had been enough to revel in the acid on raw nerves, the race of blood in his veins and down his face.  After the first sweet, terrible time when Knives, murder and madness in his eyes, had backed his faithful, uncomprehending servant into a corner and taken the world away- it was like love at first sight, viscous, toxic need flowing in him, making his soul sluggish until his master's touch, or a look of disgust, quickened it.  Whether a beating or something more carnal, threats and punishments had become promises of painful rewards.  If someone had set him free, now, told him he could go... he would have laughed at the audacity- no, the sheer idiocy- of it.  To think that he could _leave!  Not until his master freed him for the final time, took him away from soiled flesh for good, would he know liberty.  And even then, he wondered if his broken soul would stay here, bound to eternal service, but without the brief surcease of fleshly sins.  If there were a hell, that was it.  The only saving grace of existence was that- the perfect being lowering himself to his servant's level, delivering unto him temporary release.  Even if it was not Legato he wanted, it was Legato he had.  The minion had learned to take what he could get- undeserving of the angel's love, he was at least enlightened enough to deserve a personal fury, a specific hatred.  It was the mark that set him above the rest of humanity.  Each scar was an accomplishment, a mark of divine favor._

Now, hands moved to touch the wound on his left shoulder, where thick gouges were starting to congeal.  The rent flesh, he mused, was still under Knives' nails- a part of himself that would stay for another brief moment with his Lord.  Legato's own digits were sticky and stained- he licked the ichor from them thoughtlessly, the warmth doing nothing to thaw the chill of indifference already threatening to fall over him again.  


	2. chapter 2

Another very short chapter.  'M sorry, it's just the way I am.  ^^  It'd be either the numerous short'ns, or one long one and no motivation to do another.  X.x  Thanks all for all the lurvely reviews.  They keep one warm in winter, you know.  

Knives is so unbearably, gorgeously eevil.  ::happysigh.:: well, on with the yaoi!

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Knives had turned away, dressing himself, possessed already of that unnerving calm.  If Legato had been capable of hating his Master, it would be _that_ he hated most.  The minion, however, possessed no such faculty; he was still gasping, the only sound he could manage as he fought for control of his body, for the coherence to beg.  As soon as the madness and need left him, left inside his servant, Knives was serene.  It was as though Legato, naked and disconnected on the floor, gasping like a fish in the desert, was an intriguing surprise.  The look of mild disgust at the human's state was laced with a deeper hatred, and it fueled another burst of venom and pleasure.  Legato fought it back, another knot in a throat left dry by his exertions, drier by the metal of his own blood.

"Please," was all he could whisper.  He spoke it because it was all he could force between split lips, the only word that would suffice.  He didn't even know what it meant.  Didn't know what he wanted, nor why he saw fit to beg Knives.  The plant was as cold a soul as any of the ones he sought to destroy.  But he did- if only to break the silence, to- he didn't dare hope- catch the warmth of another hateful glance.  "Please," he choked again, lifting himself the rest of the way, on hands and knees before the glory of his Lord.

Knives sneered, and Legato prayed.  He often did, though it shamed him to admit it.  To Knives, the only God he'd ever known, he prayed for a soft word or caress, a kiss on _his_ lips, not the absent brother's.  He prayed to be Legato Bluesummers in Knives' eyes and arms- not a replacement, a whore, something fucked in effigy and left for not-dead-yet, just broken.  He didn't pray for free will, nor for freedom- those were too far gone, willingly surrendered to a traitorous Lord who promised freedom but, in delivering it, only enslaved him further.  All he wanted was to own enough of himself to appreciate that Knives owned the rest.  He didn't hate it anymore- the perfect victim, he'd grown to love with violence, crave the blows and bites, need the rough, unfettered possession of his body that Knives claimed, as though by taking Legato so thoroughly, he got closer to what he really wanted.  Pragmatic and devout, he wanted nothing more physically.  He only wished it were him Knives sought, late it night, half-fevered with his dreams.  Vash, unsuspecting of it all, got all of Knives' love; Legato got his frustration, his hatred.  


End file.
